


The Haven Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre

by Feynite



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Harm to Animals, Modern AU, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Lavellan runs a wildlife rehabilitation place and Solas is a secret magical shape-shifter who gets injured and brought in and falls in love with his rescuer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is dedicated to all you fantastic persons on tumblr who expressed excitement over the idea. It'll be updated more sporadically than Looking Glass because I'm mostly just writing it when I want to try something easy and relatively fluffy; so consistency might not be a thing. Also, disclaimer: I know nothing about animal rescues. I am bullshitting my way through this, Varric-style.

 

 

It is a foolish mistake.

He would like to claim that he is not prone to them, but the long record of his life would attest otherwise.

He forgets, sometimes, how swiftly the modern advancements of the world can encroach upon the wild spaces left in it. This region is one he has not run through for a few dozen years. It hardly seems like much time, and yet he does not expect the road; and once it is beneath his racing paws, hard pavement in place of packed soil, he definitely does not expect the _car._

It is a blow that would have killed a real wolf.

He is, thankfully, not a real wolf. So it only cracks his ribs and breaks two of his legs, gashes his chest and sends him sprawling across the ground, pained and alarmed. The front of the vehicle dents violently inwards as it screeches to a halt.

Part of him is expecting an ignominious end; an irate driver emerging to finish him off, or speeding away and leaving him to expire on the roadside. His kin are far away and scattered, and would not think to look for him for months. Even magic could not sustain him for that long, and there is so little of it these days, he doubts he could heal his injuries enough to get to safety.

Death by car crash.

It’s almost funny, in a way. Such a mundane thing. Such a common way to go.

The driver gets out.

She’s a petite elven woman, dressed in a bizarre combination of yellow plaid tights and a red sweater. Her blonde hair is straight-cut and wispy. She looks unharmed. He supposes he shall be grateful for that – the accident is as much his fault as hers. It would be a shame to take a relative innocent out with him.

“Holy shit,” the woman says, as soon as she catches sight of him. “It’s a fucking – you’re a fucking – shitebaskets it’s a fucking huge arse _wolf.”_

Ah, the eloquent tones of one of the People. Truly, he will die satisfied, with such melodious poetry ringing in his ears.

The woman gets back into her car. But she doesn’t drive off, as he is expecting. Instead she seems to sit in place, shooting him disquieted glances as she gathers up her mobile device, and taps her fingers against it for a while. Or at least, that's what he assumes she is doing. He gets confirmation when she calls someone, and lifts it to her ear. He can hear her half of the conversation through her open window.

“...This is why I don’t fucking drive out of the city!” she says, which seems a strange greeting.

“No, you don’t understand. I hit something. My car’s fucking totalled now and it’s a _wolf_ and I’m… well, look, I think it’s still alive. You have to come!”

She sounds rattled. Probably not very old, he thinks. Though _most_ elves live and die young these days.

“...I don’t know, it’s a wolf! What if there are bears out here, too? Are there fucking bears? Am I going to get stranded out here and get eaten by bears or mooses or some shite?”

“...This is why _you_ have to come visit _me._ In the _city_. Where _people_ are supposed to live, not freaky animals and dumb arse wolves that try and fight my car!”

“...It just jumped out at me what, was I supposed to do?!”

“...Alright, alright. Yeah, it’s the same road. Yeah, I’ll be here. But you better hurry the fuck up if you don’t want this wolf to die or whatever, because it’s looking not so good.”

There’s a ‘beep’ sound as she hangs up.

 _Interesting,_ he thinks. He may actually survive this mess after all. That would be preferable, he decides. If word ever got around that Fen’Harel had been taken out by a simple motor vehicle, his reputation would be left in utter shambles.

Or worse shambles than it's already in, rather.

As it stands, being rescued by shemlen from the side of the road like a common animal is not something he’d like to see get around, either.

It’s a long, painful wait before he hears the rumble of another engine heading up the road. The woman who hit him sits in her car and watches him pensively, as if she half expects him to lunge to his feet and attempt to maul her through the window, and half expects him to expire on the spot.

The new vehicle comes up from behind him, which makes him more nervous than he would care to admit. It slows to a halt before it gets near enough for him to see. The rumbling of it stops, and a door opens, hinges creaking. An older vehicle, he thinks. Large. Perhaps a truck.

Light, rapid footsteps approach.

“Oh _no,”_ he hears a woman’s voice gasp.

Then the new arrival moves into his sight, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, and he immediately feels a jolt of anxiety. She’s elven, too, but Dalish; dressed in simple jeans and a worn shirt, appropriately barefoot, with gloves on her hands and dirt stains on her knees. Dalish are often hunters, and often dislike wolves for entirely unreasonable motivations that should in no way be related to any possible inconveniences he may or may not have inadvertently caused them over the years.

At least she is not carrying any weapons. In fact, she seems to have some sort of first aid kit in her arms.

She approaches him carefully, slowly, but without fear.

“Cole, get the stretcher!” she calls back towards her vehicle.

The elf who hit him with her car emerges from her vehicle again, only to linger anxiously at her friend's shoulder.

“Is it gonna make it, then?” the wispy blonde asks.

“Can’t call it yet. But you hang in there, my friend,” the Dalish replies, fixing him with an entreating look that he finds himself inexplicably reluctant to deny.

The asked-for ‘Cole’ emerges, then, carrying what he assumes to be 'the stretcher'; a light platform obviously meant to hold relatively large animals.

“I don’t think we have a crate big enough for him,” the youth declares. He’s young, scrawny, and human, and half buried beneath a massive sun hat. But when their eyes meet, there is a flash of undeniable recognition.

A spirit.

A spirit in a body. It’s been centuries since he’s seen it before, but the effect is undeniable.

He wonders if either of the women know.

After a second, the boy looks away.

“You won’t need to put him under,” he says.

“Even friendly animals can lash out when they’re in pain, Cole. Even friendly _people_ , for that matter, and if he won’t fit in a crate it’ll be kinder to knock him out for the drive. Safer, too.”

True enough, he supposes; and while he does not relish being in any way compromised, it’s a small price to pay to ease the nerves of people who are attempting to render him aid.

He’s in a lot of pain, besides. She makes soothing noises, and he is surprised to find them effective. It’s not the crooning baby-sounds of an indulgent owner to their pet. Instead she hums and talks in a low, slow tone, and the easy cadence of her words seems to draw him away from the worst of his agony. And keeps him distracted from the pinch of a needle.

“Stupid wolf,” the blonde mutters at him, her brows knotted and her posture guilty.

“He was running, free. Wild. He forgot that cars existed. That even people did,” the spirit boy says, dreamy yet insightful.

“I imagine most wolves would prefer to forget that people existed, if they could,” the Dalish replies, and her touch is careful, clinical as she assess his injuries. Mindful not to cause him any additional pain, or to linger too close to the range of his jaws.

“Oh, wow. You’re a magnificent one,” she informs him.

He is a little embarrassed at how much the unexpected compliment pleases his increasingly-groggy mind. It’s been far too long since he was in solicitous company.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wolf as big as you before. You must have come a long way to get here, hey? Did you bring your pack along?”

“No,” Cole interjects. “Lonely and alone. Wandering. He has been by himself, preferring the quiet of solitude to the noise and demands of kinship.”

“A lone wolf, hmm?” she replies, and the way she takes the spirit at his word tells him that she knows at least something of the boy’s true nature.

“It’s creepy when you do that,” the blonde says to Cole.

“She feels badly for hitting you with the car. You frightened her,” Cole says, to him.

“Not true you lying tosser!” 

“Calm down, Sera. Wolves don’t judge,” the Dalish interjects, smoothing ruffled feathers.

He huffs in amusement, before at last he loses the battle with his consciousness.

 

~

 

This wolf, she decides, is the most amazing wolf she’s ever seen in her life.

For one thing, he’s the size of a damn _house._ It takes herself, Sera, and Cole all lifting together to get him into the back of the truck. And while none of them might _look_ particularly strong, that’s pretty much an optical illusion. Underneath her sweater Sera’s got enough shoulder strength to punch out one of those bears she was worrying over, and Cole’s all wiry muscles, and she spends most her day hauling enough shit around the rehabilitation center and the rest of it practicing with her staff, which isn’t light – so the old standby about ‘spindly’ mages can go stuff itself.

She manages to get a healing spell over the wolf before they settle him into place, and strap him down so he won’t go rattling around the back as soon as they start driving. His fur is pitch black, thick and glossy enough to make her worry that someone might have been keeping him as a pet, and when he clocks out and she checks his mouth, his teeth are in great shape.

Apart from getting creamed by Sera’s tiny little car, he’s _superb._

Speaking of Sera’s car, a quick check reveals that most of the damage is superficial. Sera complains about nature and the wilderness and friends who live in ‘bumfuck nowhere’ the whole while.

“I visited you last time,” she reminds her.

“You should visit me every time! You know what doesn’t happen in the city? Fucking _wolves_ , that’s what doesn’t happen in the city!”

“Hence my not living there,” she replies, but tries to keep it good-natured. Sera’s touchy and clearly feels like actual shit for hitting an animal, whatever she says, so there’s no need to rub salt into the wound. It was an accident. Hell, one night she hit a halla herself, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die of grief when the poor creature didn’t pull through.

Sometimes even being careful and having stellar reflexes just can’t match an animal suddenly bursting onto the road.

“He will make it,” Cole tells her, as they pile back into the truck. She turns the key in the ignition, and checks to make sure Sera’s following them as she pulls out.

“Yeah? You think so?” she asks.

“He’s stronger than a regular wolf.”

She’s not sure if he means that he’s just a really exceptional sort of wolf, or if he means they’ve got some kind of demon-abomination wolf riding in the back. After a minute, she decides it probably doesn’t make much difference. As long as it doesn’t try to bite her head off – and regular animals in pain are as liable for that as non-regular ones – then they’ll still do what they can for him.

It’s their job, and anyway, after the zombie horse they can’t really claim to discriminate.

The Haven Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre isn’t a big organization. Not yet. But they still see a lot of traffic. It’s the area, really. The next nearest animal shelter of any kind is Hawke’s Rescue, and that’s all the way over in sunny Kirkwall. Which means Haven gets the call for the injured wildlife in the region, and for a lot of the abandoned domestic animals, too.

Keeps them busy. She still remembers the evening when Cole turned up, carrying a box full of water-logged kittens he’d pulled out of a river, and looking twice as drenched himself.

They pull up the gravel driveway towards the main building, and she frowns a little when she sees an unfamiliar car already parked at the top of it.

Did Vivienne get another new car? But she almost never visits during the week. Just on Saturdays, usually to drag her out to lunch and make certain that her donations are being well-spent. Besides which, the bland grey sedan really doesn’t look like it’d be her style.

Well, they’ve got a patient in the back, so whoever it is will have to wait.

The wolf’s still sleeping soundly as they unfasten him and pull his stretcher free, and manage to get him into the operating room – a little side building that Bull and the gang built for her last year, to try and clear up some space in the main house; mostly so she wouldn’t have to keep sleeping on a pallet under the kitchen table while the animals took up what was supposedly the bedroom.

And also most of the kitchen, really.

Not that they don't still do that anyway, from time to time.

The exterior of the building stands out, newer than everything else, not yet worn away from all of its freshness by time and the elements. Her staff rests in one corner of the room – _that’s_ where she left it, right - and the lights flicker a bit when she turns them on.

Cole helps her narrow down their patient’s injuries, and they splint his legs, and she uses a spell to close the gash on his chest and carefully mend the cracks in his ribs. She has enough oomph left over to deal with some splintering in the bones of his hind leg, but after that, she makes herself stop. The owl pen has a new resident who will need some spellwork for her wing again tonight, and things could still go south for Leliana’s litter of baby nugs, so she can’t afford to exhaust herself.

The wolf’s stable and he doesn’t seem to have any internal bleeding; it’ll do.

She gives him another quick check-over, and is surprised to see his eyes slit open.

“Hey there, handsome,” she says. “You’re doing great. We’ll get you back on your paws in no time.”

His tail gives a half-hearted little _thump_.

He seems as surprised about it as she is. 

“We’ll put him in pen 3b, close to the woods,” she decides.

“So he’s going to be alright?” Sera asks, lingering by the doorway.

“Yeah, he’s gonna pull through. You did good when you called me,” she confirms.

Sera scoffs.

“Wouldn’t’ve _had_ to call you if bloody stupid animals didn’t have a _death wish,”_ she grumbles, but it’s less tense than before.

“How’s Dagna?” she asks, steering the conversation onto less guilt-ridden subjects.

As hoped, Sera immediately lights up.

“Widdle!” she exclaims. “She got the scholarship! And she asked me to move in with her, it’s brilliant, about fucking time those snobs at the college stopped being all snobbish about dwarves and stuff, like just because you’re short and you can’t do magic doesn’t mean you can’t _do stuff_ _with_ magic and things anyway…”

And she’s off, then, singing her girlfriend’s praises as they carefully lug the wolf over to one of the pens for resting. She keeps a close eye on him, but he must still be pretty out-of-it, because he hardly moves as they get him settled. The pen’s a good choice; she cleaned it this morning herself, and it’s near enough to the toolshed-slash-unofficial-reptile-house that it doesn’t feel exposed, but close enough to the woods that it shouldn’t be too alien, either. Not too big, but he won’t be able to run around any time soon yet, so hopefully the confinement will feel more like safety than imprisonment.

She’s a little surprised when she moves to try and gently transfer him from the stretcher; the wolf gets up on his own, slow and ginger and heavily favouring his good side, and limps the few steps onto the bedding himself.

Then he slumps down.

“Thanks,” she says, reflexive and impressed.

“He can’t go far, so he may as well stay here,” Cole murmurs.

“Smart as well as handsome. I’ll be sad to see him go,” she muses, smiling reassuringly – not that a wolf could know that – before she closes the pen door.

“You’re _always_ sad to see me go,” a familiar voice intones from behind, and she whirls around, startled but delighted.

“Dorian!” she exclaims.

The man himself is standing behind them, dressed in a pair of the plainest pants she's ever seen him in, with a billowing shirt that still makes him look like something off the cover of a romance novel. Without further ado she launches herself at him, ignoring his protestations that she’s muddying his clothes.

He hugs her back, just like he always does.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away after half a second. “You’re supposed to be in Tevinter! And don’t tell me that piece of shit sedan is _yours?”_

“Firstly, that is a rental,” he replies. “Secondly, you are no one to be calling anyone else’s vehicle a piece of shit. You’re still driving that damn forest green deathtrap masquerading as a truck.”

“Fair enough. But you’re still supposed to be in Tevinter,” she insists.

“I can’t just fly over for a surprise visit to my best friend?” he asks, with exaggerated affront.

“In election season?” she returns, raising an eyebrow at him.

He sighs, gusty and a little too genuinely defeated, at that, for her liking.

“Alexius pulled out. The campaign’s shot,” he says.

“What? No! You were doing so well!”

“It was Felix. He finally…”

His face falls, not quite crumpling into tears but only, she thinks, through dint of effort. And long experience at suppressing them.

“Oh, Dorian. I’m sorry,” she says.

“Well,” he says, an awkward, pained laugh escaping him. “We knew it was coming.”

“Never makes it any easier,” she gently reminds him, and offers him another hug.

After a minute, Cole’s spindly arms join the fray.

“Oh, Maker. I’m being group-hugged in the middle of a mud pile in the wilderness. I’ve reached a terrible new low,” Dorian says, part joking, part grief-stricken.

“Fuck it,” Sera says, blowing out a breath, and throws her arms around his other side for good measure.

“This is pathetic,” Dorian reiterates.

But he doesn’t shake them off.

After a minute she ferries him over towards the house, with offers to let him stay the night. He can take her bed and she can sleep under the table again, like old times. She knows he’ll turn her down in favour of a hotel well before he does, but the offer gives him something to rant about – her living conditions, in this case.

Poor, poor Felix.

Sera puts out a few calls for her and asserts that Bull and the gang are on their way, and she texts Varric and then calls Josephine to see if she can scrounge up any short-notice volunteers to come and help with the animals while she deals with Dorian’s crisis. Then she has to go check on the baby nugs; when that’s done Josephine herself turns up, along with Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen, all piled into Cullen’s jeep.

She does a mental calculation on her bank balance, figures she can afford it, and orders pizza for everyone.

Most of the focus is on Dorian, in between running around tending to the animals. They tag-team it so that the grief-stricken mage is never left alone in her kitchen. Where there is, admittedly, a lot of alcohol. In between reminiscing about Felix, Sera gets to regale everyone with her new ‘I-Hit-a-Wolf’ story, which is rapidly evolving into a ‘Monster-Wolf-Attacked-My-Car’ story.

She checks on said wolf a few times; usually to find him sleeping, and sometimes to find him watching her with that sharp, intelligent gaze of his.

She’s used to that from wolves, though. Foxes, too, and a lot of the crows and ravens. The smart ones can either be the easiest or the hardest to work with, depending.

Just like people that way.

Felix had been one of the smart ones. Not quite the genius Dorian was – though Dorian would probably refute that – but wise, with a long view that didn’t match such a short life.

“You pull through,” she tells the wolf. “I’d rather not lose anyone else today.”

It’s probably her imagination, but she thinks he nods.

When it finally gets dark and Dorian heads back to his hotel, her night, as ever, is filled with scheduled interruptions. She gets up for late feedings and check-ups, and to make sure the nocturnal patients aren’t up to trouble, and to check the wards and make sure the heating enchantments are heating, and the cooling enchantments are cooling.

Usually she’s got more volunteers to help, but for now, it’s just herself and Cole. Ever since the incident at Wycome. It’s been hard, for a lot of reasons, and not least because Clan Lavellan can scarcely offer a wildlife shelter much more support than its last surviving member.

When she sleeps, she dreams of the wolf; padding curiously into her room.

“Hello,” she greets.

“Hello,” the wolf replies, in a surprisingly melodious voice.

“How are you feeling?” she wonders, with the hazy logic of dreams.

“Much improved. I will not be a burden for very long,” he tells her.

“You’re not a burden now,” she replies. “You’re the reason a place like this exists. You’re giving it purpose. No matter how long it takes, that’s never a burden. It can’t be.”

The wolf looks momentarily taken aback.

“…Still. My recovery will be swift,” he promises her.

“That’s good on its own, then,” she decides.

He nods, and on a whim, she reaches over and runs her fingers through the fur of his neck. He’s not frightening, and she thinks she might be dreaming. Wolves don’t generally talk in real life. Probably, it’s a spirit echoing her own thoughts and concerns, but if so, it seems a benign one.

“I never really get to meet many animals under happy circumstances, so you’ll have to forgive me for saying so. But I’m glad I got the chance to know you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wolf quite like you before.”

“I doubt you have,” he agrees. “I must thank you for saving me. I owe you a debt.”

She shakes her head.

“No, no debt. Like I said before. You’re what this place is here for.”

“I understand, but I also insist,” he says. “It is a matter of pride.”

The air feels a little strange, for a moment.

When she wakes, she worries briefly about whatever spirit that might have been. But then she shakes the unease aside. She gave it no foothold, and turned away its offer. That should be more than enough to take care of any potential issues.

Right?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Repaying his hostess is the thought at the forefront of his mind when he wakes to the inside of a pen.

Not a development he would have anticipated in his life. Particularly not in any benevolent context.

He has been captured by the Dalish, he muses, ruefully. The last time that happened he had to chew through… well. Anyways, that incident had been _considerably_ more ignominious than his current one. Which is saying something.

Shaking the grogginess slowly from his head, he blinks himself awake, and takes stock of his situation again. He finds that he has been afforded a generous quantity of water whilst unconscious, as well as some raw meat. It’s cold, but doesn’t seem to have been sitting out long. He has never particularly enjoyed eating as a wolf, but he could use the energy, he reasons; and his hostess might become alarmed if she thinks he is avoiding meals.

He eats and drinks his fill, and then carefully inspects himself. He could probably heal the remainder of his injuries with magic now; but that would be conspicuous.

Besides which, if he is to devise a suitable boon for his rescuer, he will have to at least take a little more time to observe her.

Though he is not over-fond of the confining nature of his pen.

It’s _nice_ pen, at least, and without using magic on his injuries, he doesn’t suppose he could do much with any additional space. So he continues to rest, instead, drifting in and out of the Fade, gathering hazy impressions of this strange place he had been brought to. Memories of animals, and of people. He sees a lot of Dalish, and then… not a lot of Dalish.

Flurries of vallaslin-wearing elves whittle down to just one.

One Dalish, and her bizarre collection of associates, benefactors, and friends, he notes. His rescuer is bizarrely undiscerning for a Dalish elf. Non-Dalish elves, humans, dwarves, even a qunari are littered among the spectres and impressions.

It is fascinating.

He wonders, at first, if the abrupt vanishing of the other Dalish volunteers has something to do with this trend of hers. If she was abandoned by them for failing to adhere to the general Dalish principle of 'no non-elves allowed'. Eventually, though, he finds memories and dreams in which the two groups bleed together, seemingly without incident. A rare thing, he decides; a Dalish clan which might even be called _sociable._

But then they vanish, all at around the same point in the hazy sequence of events, and he wonders.

Of course, the animals currently occupying the centre leave their own marks. He sees the dreams of the nocturnal creatures, and the napping ones. There are no hounds, thankfully; the only domesticated animals seem to be some baby nugs and an obscenely lazy three-legged house cat; the latter of which tracks his progress through the Fade with half-lidded eyes, curled into a sunbeam spilling across a small kitchen table.

Still, the place seems to have an abundance of residents for what seem to be just two remaining regular volunteers, and a revolving door of guests.

He watches his saviour and the spirit boy work their way through feeding and caring for their charges, until the boy, Cole, comes to check on him.

“Can I do anything for you?” Cole asks, as if he is a guest in a hotel rather than an animal in a pen.

“You _are_ our guest,” the boy says, tilting his head slightly. “We aren’t going to keep you. But you know that. I’m sorry about the pen. You can’t run around unless I tell her what you are, and I don’t think you want me to.”

Ah, no.

Slowly, he shakes his head.

“She won’t mind,” Cole informs him.

Thus far, she has certainly seemed to turn no potential creature away. But he’s not prepared to test that generosity to its limit. There is, after all, a vast gulf of distance between a random undead horse and a very specific, reviled figure straight out of mythology.

The boy shrugs.

“Alright,” he says. “Either way, you can stay as long as you like.”

Then he leaves some fresh water, and walks off.

His rescuer comes to check on him shortly thereafter. She brings more food with her, and her mage’s staff, as well.

He stares at it, trying to get a better feel for the make of the thing. It’s heavy-looking, with a surprisingly wicked blade on one edge, made of plain carved wood that barely whispers of elegance, to his mind. In days long past he knew craftsmen who could make something twice as powerful, a hundred times as beautiful, and half as weighty, but it looks surprisingly _correct_ in her grasp, as if its cumbersome length could somehow turn into an advantage.

She catches his stare, and chuckles at him.

“Sorry, handsome. I’d use magic to heal you and send you off straight away, but there are other patients to think of, too, and I can’t go spreading myself thin,” she informs him. Though she does, a moment later, cast a spell. Shimmering blue light that eases the worst of his aches.

Her magic feels small, but meaningful; like the tiny points of stars in the night sky.

It makes him nostalgic for a moment. Wistful.

Then she withdraws, and leaves him with his meal and a few encouraging words.

Stranger and stranger. Perhaps he has been gone on his own too long. Perhaps the People are at last starting to regain something of their own, if only in bits and pieces.

A promising notion.

He eats his meal, and slowly paces around his pen somewhat, testing the healing job and seeing how well his legs can work.

By the afternoon the grief-stricken Tevinter mage returns, and is prompted by his saviour to come and gawk at him. To his credit, the man does nothing so foolish as attempting to stick his fingers through the mesh, and doesn’t croon any nonsense words in his direction, either. He does seem to agree on the general consensus that he is large and handsome; truths he is already aware of, but it is pleasant to have them reaffirmed.

Somehow _more_ pleasant when they come from his strange Dalish saviour, however.

He tells himself it is because of the sheer novelty of a Dalish elf who does not despise him on sight.

Yes.

That must be it.

 

~

 

“So do you think it’s possessed?” she asks Dorian, after showing him the wolf and then steering him back into the main house.

“I have no idea. But it is almost certainly _something_ ,” Dorian replies.

The mystery will be good for him, she hopes. A harmless distraction; not stressful but readily at hand. It might be better if the campaign could have kept on going, but she can’t say she doesn’t prefer to have him here if he’s going to be dealing with the fallout of Felix’s death. Tevinter political circles are a lot of things, but 'sympathetic to people's losses' isn’t generally one of them.

”Maybe I have Fen’Harel relaxing in one of my pens,” she jokes.

It gets a chuckle, at least.

“Oh, certainly. And I’m sure Magister Corypheus really is a secret ancient darkspawn, just like the Tevene Inquirer is always insisting,” Dorian replies.

“Are they _still_ going with that?” she wonders.

“Of course! I should e-mail you some of the ‘shocking true images’ they’ve had going around. Some shoddy photoshop job that it makes it look like his face is melting,” he informs her.

“Well, I can’t say he doesn't have it coming to him, all things considered.”

“There are mornings where I wake up and almost find it plausible that he _is_ some sort of malevolent creature from the darkest depths of history,” Dorian admits. Then he claps his hands together. “Now. Will you let me repay you for dinner yesterday? I saw a new bistro in town on the way up here. If luck is with us, it may be better than that ridiculous ‘Antivaini fusion’ place that’s somehow still in business.”

“The animals don’t look after themselves, Dorian,” she replies.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Are you telling me Cole can’t handle things for an hour or two?” he counters.

She hesitates. He probably can, though she generally feels guilty leaving him holding down the fort too often. He’s still adjusting to being a _person_ , after all, and that’s big enough; every additional weight she puts on his shoulders always seems like too much. And she’s been having to do more and more of that lately, all things considered.

But he’s risen to the challenge without complaint, and she doesn’t really have it in her to deny Dorian’s request, she supposes.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I’ll go ask him if he’s good with it.”

“Of course he is, he’s _Cole,”_ Dorian replies, but just waves her off.

At the mage’s insistence, they take his rental into town, leaving Cole to wave them off from the driveway.

The bistro turns out to be palatable, which a cheery atmosphere, if not quite up to Dorian’s exacting culinary standards. They sit outside and talk about Tevinter politics and the books they’ve been reading and speculate on just what her wolf might be, and in general discuss anything and everything except for Felix or Alexius.

Dorian’s paying the bill when she hears a familiar voice call out to her; a lilting Orlesian accent, coloured by age.

“Miss Lavellan,” an elegant woman, wrinkled and small, greets her.

She musters an immediate smile.

“Madam Justinia! What a pleasant surprise,” she says.

The old woman smiles back, and delicately accepts her offer of a handshake. Her grip is light; it always makes her think of a bird's bones.

“I fear I may have to disappoint you on that count,” Justinia admits, her brows furrowing into a regretful line. “I was going to head up to your shelter this evening. But I called ahead and your odd boy informed me you were in town, with your… friend.”

Dorian smiles in that way that he always does whenever someone manages to make the word ‘friend’ sound like ‘questionable Tevene associate who is probably taking advantage of you in some hitherto unseen fashion’.

Justinia’s one of the centre’s biggest donors, though, so she forces down the urge to bristle.

“Well as you can see, I am indeed here,” she replies instead. “What can I do for you? There are still two nugs left unspoken for in the litter, if that’s what you’re interested in.”

“Sadly, it is not,” Justinia says.

There’s an awkward silence.

Then the old woman ducks her head.

“I will not be able to make this month’s contribution. Or the next, I am afraid.”

She blinks, taken aback.

“Oh,” is the first thing that slips out of her, more surprised than anything.

“I wanted to tell you in person; you deserve that much, at least. I know you have been struggling, and you do such good work. Such good work. The animals are forever indebted to you,” Justinia declares.

Dorian is silent, looking between them.

She swallows.

“May I ask what has brought this on?” she says. “Only because you seem so reluctant, and you _have_ been one of the shelter’s biggest supporters since we began.”

Justinia sighs.

“My medical bills have risen in recent months, and my legal case against the Grey Warden Antiquity Group seems set to drag on. I have had to drop several of my usual charitable contributions, and I fear your animals fell short of the Tranquil Rehabilitation Clinic and the Refugee Orphans Fund, when it came to it,” the old woman admits.

She ducks her head.

“Perfectly understandable. I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for us so far,” she replies.

Justinia shakes her head.

“I am sorry.”

“Madam Justinia, please. I will not forget that you have supported us this far, even if you can’t continue to,” she insists.

But Justinia doesn’t seem to take much comfort from her insistence. The old woman apologizes again before taking her leave.

Dorian looks up at her from where he’s still sitting at the table.

“What’s that fickle old bat suing the Grey Warden Antiquity Group for?” he asks.

“Dorian,” she chides.

“Oh don’t ‘Dorian’ me, the only reason I didn’t make a rude gesture when she first walked up was because I knew she was one of your contributors,” he replies. “If she’d opened with the disappointment a little sooner, I could have cut loose.”

She sighs.

“Some of the wardens' re-enactment people turned out to be part of a cult and kidnapped her,” she admits.

Dorian snorts.

“What. Really?”

“Really.”

“I won’t say that’s _hilarious_ , but…”

She cuffs him on the shoulder; shakes her head at him, but her heart is in her stomach.

“Come on,” she says. “We should get back. I have to check on Cole and crunch some numbers, now.”

Dorian’s eyes narrow a little.

“Just how much of your organization was Chantry Grandma floating?” he asks her.

“Never you mind,” she replies, with the best, most reassuring smile she can manage.

It apparently falls short.

“Right,” he says, tossing down the tip. “Looks like I’ll have some phone calls to make, too.”

“You really don’t have to…”

He waves her off.

“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I’m going to sit idly by when I can swoop in and make little old ladies look bad!”

Oh, Dorian. She supposes the distraction could be good for him, but either way, she can see she’s not going to talk him out of it. She doesn’t mention that she’d already been worried about what the absence of Felix’s regular contributions would do to her funds. The Centre has a lot of supporters, but they can be sporadic. Vivienne’s her big ticket now, and Madame de Fer alternates between a roster of charities; regular and reliable, but there are generally long dry spells between her contributions. And there's Varric, of course, but he's got Kirkwall to look after, too.

Their last big fundraiser was the one held shortly after Wycome. Then interest died back down to its usual levels. It wouldn’t be such a catastrophe, she thinks, if last year hadn’t heralded the introduction of a new tax on Dalish ‘Non-Cultural Sites’; or, basically, a vampiric leech sucking her people dry for trying to own any segment of land that the _chantry_ didn’t deem ‘culturally significant to the Dalish’.

Needless to say, the chantry historian who’d come to inspect her petition to have the Centre deemed a cultural site had barely taken a ten-minute look around before denying her request.

Or, she thinks, it would be nice if the government would let her register the property for charity benefits without having to relinquish its status as Dalish territory.

She worries over the matter over as Dorian drives, an uneasy quiet falling between them. Maybe Josephine can find her someone else. Animals aren’t in ‘vogue’ in the current charity circles, but she can always try and perk up interest with some more cute or interesting videos of the their residents. She’s already cutting as many costs as she can with magic, which helps immensely with some of the potential medical and energy bills, but there's only so much one mage can do, and magic can't really help with the cost of food.

Possibly she can shift some of her permanent residents over to Kirkwall, at least for a while. Or Amaranthine, even. She’d be sad to see any of them go, but…

Well.

As soon as they pull into the driveway, Dorian takes out his phone.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Calling people, obviously,” he replies.

“You don’t have to do it _right away.”_

He rolls his eyes at her.

She catches his wrist, and makes him look at her.

“I mean it, Dorian. I know we Aren’t Talking About It, but you _are_ allowed to just be here, as my friend, and not worry about anything,” she insists.

He looks at her a minute, then sighs and shakes his head.

“With all due fondness, stop being a moron,” he tells her. “You know I live to network. Let me get it out of my system; finding donors for you is probably going to be more fulfilling than finding donors for Alexius anyway. You have more cute baby furry things. Only a few of Alexius’ interns could fairly be described that way, and none of them ever made adorable peeping noises.”

She sighs, and then pecks his cheek, and gives up.

“Softie,” Dorian accuses as she closes the car door behind her.

It’s only once she’s safely inside and away from witnesses that she finds her stress ball and throws it as hard as she can at the nearest wall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support, you guys! Not a lot of Solas/Lavellan interaction in this chapter, I know, sorry. Blame Dorian.


	3. Chapter 3

She calls Varric, first. It takes her three tries to get through, but that’s not unusual, if he’s writing.

Finally, he picks up.

“Twigs!” he greets. “How goes the saving of nature and the nurturing of grief-stricken Tevinter mages? And to what do I owe the pleasure of an actual phone call?”

“Bad news,” she admits.

“What, other than Felix?” he asks, abruptly concerned.

“Not as bad as the news about Felix. But I just found out that one of my biggest supporters is pulling out in a hurry,” she explains, sinking down into a chair at her kitchen table, and booting up her laptop. The thing roars like an aircraft carrier as it chugs its way to life.

“Yikes. How big a supporter?”

“It’s Madam Justinia,” she tells him.

“The one who makes up about _half_ of your contributions?” Varric asks, aghast.

“That’s the one.”

“Well, shit.”

“Pretty much.”

Her laptop finally finishes its slow crawl to awareness. She loads the centre’s webpage, and starts checking her messages, thinking over who she can write to for donations on short notice. She can get Cole to take more pictures of the cuter and sadder residents.

“Shit,” Varric repeats. “I wish you’d told me this two weeks ago, before I invested in another one of Isabela’s adventure cruises.”

“You mean the floating brothels?”

“They’re not actually brothels. She just calls them that because she’s Isabela. I think. Anyway, I’m between advances and three books behind. My publisher’s been riding my ass for days.”

“I did not need that mental image of your publisher, Varric.”

“You know what I mean. I’d love to help, but it’ll be at least a month before I’ve got that kind of cash floating around,” he explains. “But I’ll see who else I can get in touch with. I guess you’ll need a donation drive. Have you talked to Josephine yet?”

“You were my first stop.”

“I’m touched!” he says, and for a second actually sounds it. “Well, don’t worry. If it comes to it, I’ll send you Broody to take pictures with the animals and implode ovaries across the continent for a while. It’s a powerful weapon, but it never fails to bring in the cash.”

She chuckles.

“Can we also have Merrill to make sad faces in videos and tell people how disappointed she is in their lack of concern for hurt animals?” she asks.

“Only if you’re desperate,” he replies.

She might be, she thinks; but it’s not quite at the point where she’s willing to admit it.

“Oh! And there’s something else,” she says, remembering. “I’ve got that wolf.”

“Yeah, I know. Sera was telling everyone how it jumped out of the woods and tried to eat her car,” Varric replies.

“Yes, but I’m not so sure he’s a wolf,” she admits. “I mean, I don’t think it’s a regular one. You remember when that story was on the news, about that farm that had to deal with demon wolves?”

“You think you’ve got a _demon wolf?”_

“Maybe?” she suggests. “I’m not sure. Could just be my imagination. He hasn’t been aggressive or anything, but I was wondering, if I took a few pictures, if maybe you could nudge Anders and see if he has any thoughts on the subject. Or the Hawkes, even. Mythal knows that family’s probably encountered everything under the sun at this point.”

“If this is like the zombie horse again, I’m not helping clean up.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“When a qunari has to use a ladder to reach half the mess, it’s bad,” he counters. “But that’s easy enough. Send me your photos.”

“Great. I’ll just go take some.”

“Ugh. You’re killing me, Twigs. What do I keep telling you?”

She sighs.

“Take photos all the time. Post. Publicize. I know, I know,” she says, and gets up. “Just give me two seconds.”

“Don’t get eaten by the monster wolf while you’re taking snapshots.”

“Haven’t gotten eaten yet, have I?”

“You realize that’s exactly the kind of thing someone says right before they get eaten in one of my books?”

She sighs, fondly, and hangs up.

Outside, Dorian has rolled up the car’s windows and appears to be shouting at someone, if his dramatic gesturing is anything to go by.

Promising.

She checks in with Cole, whom she finds feeding their small reptile population, and stops briefly to refresh one of the wards on the property, before finally checking on the centre’s newest resident.

The wolf is spread out and dozing a little, it seems, eyes half-lidded as she approaches.

“Mind if I take a couple of pictures?” she asks.

His eyes open, and almost immediately a low, unhappy growl escapes his throat.

She freezes.

He seems to pause, too, as if reconsidering that reaction.

“Do you – do you understand what I’m saying?” she asks.

The wolf blinks, eyes going uncommonly wide and innocent, and stares at her a second, as if to say ‘what, who, me? No, no, no, I’m just a normal wolf, of _course_ I don’t understand what you’re saying, wolves don’t speak common’. Tentatively, he lifts a paw, glances at it, and licks it. Just your basic, average wild animal, here.

_Uh-huh_ , she thinks.

“So no picture, then?” she tries again.

The wolf curls a lip, almost, but then his expression slips back into one of perfect canine innocence.

“Don’t worry. It’s just standard procedure,” she says, and snaps a photo.

Normally she’d take more than one, but since she’s really not sure what she’s dealing with, she opts to leave it at that.

The wolf lets out a disgruntled huff, and slumps, staring up at her again with those too-smart eyes. She takes a distant look at his bandages, but it seems like Cole probably changed them while she was gone. She’ll have to talk to him about that; he shouldn’t be handling an animal this big when she’s not around to help. Especially _this_ animal.

“Alright. Level with me. Were you in my dream?” she asks.

The wolf blinks, and tilts his head, as if to ask her how a _completely ordinary_ wolf is supposed to answer that question.

She narrows her eyes at him.

“You’re a guest. Behave yourself,” she asks, and then, noting his empty food dish, goes to get him something fresh to eat.

The rest of the day goes by in a flurry of activity. After a few hours she knocks on the window of Dorian’s car.

“Want to come in? Have a sandwich? Glass of water, maybe?” she asks him.

“I would love to have a sandwich,” he tells her, with his eyes narrowed at his phone. “But I am still busy, because apparently every last contact of means that I have is a monster. A monster who is immune to pictures of Cole sitting with adorable baby ducklings and fawns. I mean, I always _knew_ they were monsters, but there are layers to this sort of thing. It’s disheartening to realize so many of them fall so low on the spectrum. They are putting my country to shame. Again. Even more than usual, in fact.”

“I’ll bring the sandwich out to the car?” she suggests.

“And that glass of water, too, if you please,” he replies.

He finally leaves, shortly before dinner, to go and continue shouting at people from the privacy of his hotel room. Or, hopefully, do something slightly less stressful.

By the time she turns in, falling asleep seems almost impossible. Her mind keeps whirring with dilemmas and solutions, worrying over the impending bills and thinking up ideas, so that she finds herself wandering down to fire off e-mails and tweeting and texting Josephine, and then making the usual nighttime checks until she finally drops off with her phone pressed against her chest.

She dreams of a grove, lined with beautiful, ancient, overgrown statues of all sorts of animals. Vines trail from the horns of towering harts and leaping halla, and moss creeps up the feet of watching owls, and crouching frogs, and sitting wolves, and swooping ravens.

She wanders through, finding the dream hazy and peaceful and serene, until she comes to a small waterfall.

Three pedestals are settled in front of it. They are equally as overgrown as the rest; but the items on top of them look new and clear and vivid, and very out-of-place with the silent, natural impression of the rest of the place.

On one pedestal is a box of treasure. Gleaming coins, and gems, and jewelry, spilling over the edges of a gilded box. On the next pedestal is a staff. One of the finest mage’s staffs she’d ever seen, in fact, with runs etched on every possible point, a perfectly round orb providing the artful safe setting for a massive shard of lyrium. She can feel the power practically rolling off of it.

Finally, on the third pedestal is a book. Or ‘tome’, she thinks, might be more appropriate. It’s massively thick, heavily bound; with images of branches carved into the cover, and an unfamiliar – but decidedly beautiful – symbol stamped into the front.

They’re all incredibly tempting.

The staff calls to her. The book begs her to open it up, to discover what might be written on its pages. The jewels and gold aren’t terribly appealing on their own merits, but if they were real, she could probably keep the centre running indefinitely.

But they’re not real. This is a dream, in the Fade; and it always pays to be on guard.

“No, thank you,” she says, clearly, and forces herself to turn away.

She’s almost out of the grove when she nearly trips. Her foot lands on something, and she catches herself, stumbling for a step before she looks down.

A simply, tiny little totem lies at her feet.

Unlike the strange treasures on the podiums, it looks like it goes with the rest of the grove. It’s worn and small, silvery wood, and when she bends down she picks it up without thinking.

A wolf.

She’s still holding it when she wakes up.

 

~

 

Well.

That was an unexpected turn of events.

He wakes up, blinking, in the early morning, and takes a moment to simply stare at the line of trees.

The gifts had not been real, of course. The intent had been to see which she would choose. Which she would decide she wanted, or needed most. Wealth. Power. Knowledge. He could have gone from there, and used her inclinations to inform whatever manner of repayment he could manage to deliver.

The totem should not have been there.

He isn’t sure how it _got_ there, except that his subconscious is probably to blame. She turned away from his offerings, all of them, did not once give in. There had been no danger. Even so, he had felt a brief spark of admiration for her restraint, and then…

Favour of the Dread Wolf.

He huffs, and stretches, gingerly, taking stock of his injuries and reviewing the situation.

It’s probably best, he decides, that his rescuer doesn’t discover that she’s just been bestowed a token of his Favour. She _is_ Dalish, after all. But the trickier position is his own, now. Such tokens are more ceremonial than anything else, and he will not pawn her off with some pithy concept of his ‘approval’ that ties into out-dated attitudes about his kind, and their standing among the People. Attitudes he did not share even when they were prominent.

No, he will have to pay to the fullness of that Favour.

If nothing else, it will be the only way to rid her of the burden of his looming kindness, and its controversial accessories. The odds are slim, but if any of his kin should happen upon her, and notice _that…_

It would either be very embarrassing for him, or very dangerous for her.

The thought reminds him of the photo she had taken, and he grimaces.

Not his finest performance on multiple accounts. But the idea of there being _evidence_ of his current, diminished state…

No. That would not be pleasant.

And based on her comments, he has done a poor job of pretending to be a simple wolf all the same. He checks his injuries again, and examines the confines of his pen, and after a moment of quiet contemplation, reaches a conclusion.

It is time to go.

Or at least, it is time for the _wolf_ to go.

A concentrated spell, and the worst of his remaining injuries close themselves. Another, and he can stand and move with little pain. He hears movement over by the main house; rustling from the shed next to his pen.

It takes only a few nudges to get the door open, and then he heads out, and slips around behind it, and off into the waiting woods.

He pauses.

It feels almost too impolite, somehow, to simply go. As if he should leave a note.

Not that he can, he supposes. He shakes the thought away, and then keeps going, working up enough energy to heal himself again; and then he can break into a run.

A somewhat more _cautious_ run than his last.

It still takes him the better part of a day to reach one of his boltholes, hidden out in the wilderness. He takes stock of his supplies. Not very much, but then, it has been some time since he has felt any need to live opulently. Clothing, some money, a few magical items, some basic personal identifications. Good enough, he decides, and gathers it up in a backpack that’s easily carried in his jaws.

He makes a good percentage of his trek back to so-called ‘civilization’ in his wolf’s form, before changing to his elf’s instead.

From his belongings, he retrieves a small mirror, and does a quick check of his appearance. Sweater, jeans, his jawbone necklace, no hair to worry about having to manage, and clean enough – if a little bruised in places. He decides it will do. Anatomy-wise, everything feels as if it has ended up where it should go, which is also a relief, considering the complications shape-changing in an injured form can sometimes present.

He shoulders his pack, and sets off to finish his hike towards town.

His first impulse is to avoid the road, which is ridiculous. He is not a wolf anymore and is _extremely_ unlikely to be struck by traffic again.

He takes to the shoulder right when a small vehicle rounds the corner, and with a profound sense of highly unpleasant deja-vu, watches as the car veers too closely, and feels a distinct surge of pain as it clips him.

His hip and his arm burn, and he hits the ground.

Well.

_Fantastic._

The car screeches to a halt.

“Holy shit!” a familiar voice exclaims.

He stares at the sky, closes his eyes, and slowly counts to ten.

“Holy shit, oh fuck, shit, I hit a bloke! I hit a bloke! Shit!”

Damage is minimal. He mends the worst of it, which seems to provoke more cursing from his second-time assailant, and gets to his feet as the familiar blonde elf hurries towards him.

Her eyes dart over him with a mixture of relief and profound apprehension.

“You’re a mage. Thank _fuck_ you’re a mage!” she exclaims. “Not that I’d prefer to hit a mage with my car. Except I would, kind of, because you healed yourself. That’s what you’re doing, yeah? Is it enough? Do you need me to call an ambulance? Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t even see you. Fuck. I don’t want to go to jail. They send people to jail for this, don’t they?”

“I don’t want an ambulance!” He snaps, “What I want is for you to pay attention on country roads! Who gave you permission to operate a vehicle? Are there no standards for these things?! ”

“I am an _amazing_ driver!” the blonde immediately objects.

He levels her with a slightly skeptical look, and a nervous giggle escapes her.

“Yeah, alright, fair enough, I s’pose as far as it goes, you can criticize,” she amends. “Shit. What the fuck are you even doing out here anyway? You a serial killer or something?”

“If I was, I imagine being mowed down by a young woman in her car would have been a fitting end to me,” he muses.

“Yeah. Karmic, like,” the blonde agrees.

He offers her the briefest of reassuring smiles.

“Actually, though, I was heading into town,” he admits.

“Oh. Hitching?” she wonders.

“Walking. Though potentially hitchhiking as well, I suppose.” He considers his options, and sees an opportunity. “I do not suppose you could offer me a lift?”

The blonde blinks, and then considers it. She raises a hand to scratch at her hair, sizes him up, and then nods to herself.

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees. “Gotta stop by a friend’s place, first, and drop something off. That’s what I’m doing out here. If you don’t mind coming along for it, I can bring you back with me. If you try anything I’ll stab you, though.”

He raises his hands.

“I would not dare,” he promises.

“Good. Name’s Sera, by the way,” she offers. “Well. That’s one ‘em, at least.”

“I am Solas,” He replies. “Though I should say, that is only one of mine as well.”

She nods at him again, and then gestures him back towards her car.

The front is still dented, he notes. And the interior is worse than he might have expected. She plucks several empty containers off of the passenger seat, dropping them unconcernedly into the back, and he finds the floor is slightly tacky and covered in wrappers, and the door rattles ominously when she turns the ignition and starts the engine again.

There is distinctive whistling noise and a chill around his ankles as they drive, and the radio crackles and groans out something shrill and fast-paced.

Ah, the luxuries of modernity.

“So. Who is this friend you’re visiting?” he asks, politely, as he tries not to touch anything.

“Hmm? Oh. Lavellan,” Sera tells him. “She’s a nature nut. Got this whole ‘save the animals’ thing going on. Don’t try anything funny with her, or there won’t be any pieces of you big enough left to find after.”

This threat is delivered in such a cheerfully matter-of-fact manner, it takes him half a second to notice it.

“Why should I try anything ‘funny’ with your friend?” he wonders.

Sera shrugs.

“Dunno. But, bears mentioning. Find a shifty bloke out in the woods, introduce him to your friend who lives out in the woods, better make sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas, y’know? Because I will. Blow you up, I mean. My girlfriend makes bombs. Professionally.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he promises.

This may require even more delicacy than he’d assumed.

The car trundles its way at what seems like an inadvisable speed, and after a while, he decides that dying _in_ it would actually be much worse than being killed _by_ it. At least he would be permitted the dignity of the open air. And would not enter into the great hereafter with several Weisshaupt Burger Castle wrappers soaked in his blood.

When the Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre finally comes into sight, he breathes an audible sigh of relief.

“Maybe don’t mention I hit you with the car, yeah?” Sera asks, as the brakes squeal to a halt.

He considers this.

“Yes. I see no reason to bring it up,” he decides.


End file.
